Page 62 of Let Me In

And for the first time since last night, a shiver ghosts through me, not from the cold, but from the weight of being watched over so completely.

Inside, the door clicks shut behind us.

Warmth greets us instantly—soft and slow from the fire he stoked earlier, the scent of smoke and pine lingering faintly in the air. The dogs settle in quick. Cleo curls back up near the hearth, satisfied with her morning patrol. Luca takes his usual post near the couch, where he can see everything.

I don’t know where to go for a second.

I hover in the center of the room, the blanket still wrapped around me, Cal standing just behind. He doesn’t move past me right away. Just looks at me for a moment, eyes steady, unreadable in the way they get when he’s thinking too much and saying nothing.

And then—so quiet I almost miss it—he says, “Thank you.”

I blink. Turn to look at him fully. “For what?”

His gaze holds mine.

“For not asking,” he says. “Not yet.”

And I feel it—what it costs him not to push, what it costs me not to ask. Trust running both ways. Fragile and real and thick in the space between us, like breath held between waves.

The words hit something tender. I nod, unsure what to say, but the silence that follows doesn’t feel empty.

It feels earned.

Cal moves toward the kitchen then, quiet as always. I expect him to disappear behind the counter, start chopping or boiling or something, but instead he glances back over his shoulder and nods toward the couch.

“Sit, little one. I’ve got this.”

I hesitate. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“I’m sure,” he says gently, already reaching for the pan. “You did enough just showing up.”

So I sink back onto the couch.

The blanket stays around me. The fire crackles softly. And Cal moves through the kitchen like he was born to take care of someone. No noise. No fuss. Just steady hands, practiced and patient. Eggs crack. Butter hits the pan with a hiss. Something familiar and good starts to fill the room.

I watch him for a while before I speak.

“How did you sleep?” I ask softly.

He doesn’t look over. “Didn’t.”

I blink. “At all?”

“Didn’t need to.” His voice is low. Even. “Wasn’t tired.”

There’s something else in the words, but I don’t push.

I just tuck my knees up beneath the blanket, watching him stir something with the back of a wooden spoon.

“Cal?”

He glances over this time.

I search his face for something I can’t quite name. “Do you think it’ll come back?”

The question slips out before I can help it. Not fully formed. Not specific.

But he knows what I mean.

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